The Killing Club (6 page)

She answered on the second ring. ‘Cat Fallon.’ Her voice somehow managed to sound both brisk and warm.

‘It’s Ed. It’s work, is that OK?’

‘Hi there. What have you got for me? I thought I didn’t start until Monday.’ She sounded perfectly unfazed, ready for anything.

‘No, you don’t … and there’s no pressure. Has Ravi Stratton sent you a copy of the initial notes on our murder case?’

‘Yes, I’m up to speed.’

‘I’ve got an ID. And I want to inform the next-of-kin as soon as possible. Maybe attend an identification at the morgue. I think it would be good to have a woman’s touch on this one.’

‘Right. You’d like me to come now then?’

‘Yes. But if you have other arrangements….’ He heard himself as hesitant and almost as shy as he had been as a teenager asking a girl out on a date for the first time. He reminded himself that this was a work assignment, and that his hesitant and shy days were long behind him.

‘No problem. Nothing I can’t get out of. Where shall I meet you?’

He gave her the address he had found in the personnel file at the
Echo
. He hung up and sat very still for a whole five minutes, hearing Cat’s low voice resounding in his ears.

An hour later the two of them were standing outside the house where they were about to break their grim news. It was a crumbling villa set in a large rampant garden. Virginia creeper smothered most of the frontage of the house and there were one or two blue slates lying on the ground close to the front of the house, no doubt the results of the damage visited on untended old roofs by the recent gales.

The name
Old School House 1898
was painted on a wooden block just beside the front door, the lettering so faded by the weather that it was barely legible. As Swift pressed the brass bell a silvery tinkle sounded from the depths of the house.

‘It’s like something out of Dickens,’ Cat said, looking up at the dark bulk of the house from which no sign of light or life emanated.

Swift thought that was an apt description. At the same time it struck him that this sudden and unplanned initiation of Cat into his team had been something of a bonus. The seriousness of the job of informing relatives of a death pushed aside such considerations as awkwardness and suppression of feelings regarding Cat, which might have bothered him at the more formal meeting planned for Monday. When they met she had offered him her hand and shaken it warmly as she joined him at the front door of the house, and her smile had been direct and frank as had always been the case in the past.

Swift had given her the brief details from Christian Hartwell’s personnel file. And now they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, absorbed in the anticipation of the painful task ahead of them.

There was a long pause, the sound of a dog’s bark, and then the glow of a bulb coming on in the hallway. ‘I won’t be long,’ a voice reassured them. The door was thrown open to reveal an elderly woman with a mass of wiry silver hair which had been drawn up and piled into a loosely twisted knot.

On seeing the two officers, her face darkened with a sense of foreboding, although she barely glanced at their warrant cards. ‘You don’t look as though you’re bringing good news,’ she commented. ‘But, please come in.’

She led them down a wide, dark hallway into a large, square kitchen. In contrast to the coolness of the hallway the kitchen was throbbing with warmth pulsing from a wood-burning stove which looked to Swift as if it had been manufactured in the 1950s. A small dog got up from its bed and greeted the officers with tail wags and kindly looks. It had a serious limp on one of its back legs and ears which didn’t quite seem to match, one sticking up, the other curled over.

‘That’s Tamsin,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’s lovely with people, terrible with other dogs. Please sit down,’ she continued, gesturing to the assortment of ancient wooden chairs surrounding a large oak table.

Swift introduced himself and his colleague and then gestured to Cat to speak first.

‘Are you Mrs Ruth Hartwell?’ she asked, keeping her voice steady and gentle.

‘Yes.’ Ruth Hartwell sat down, placing herself behind a mound of books and a large lined writing pad with a pencil resting on it.

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ Cat went on.

Ruth Hartwell raised her head and stared the officer straight in the eye. ‘Just tell me what you have come to say.’

‘A body was found this morning at Fellbeck Crag,’ Cat said.

Ruth nodded. A picture of the crag came into her mind. It was the kind of healthy outdoors paradise currently recommended by government health advisors to counteract sloth and obesity. Ruth had walked there quite often in past years, but recently her worsening arthritis had made it more of a labour than a pleasure to walk over such rough and steep terrain. She looked across at the two officers who were watching her with grave, concerned expressions. ‘Go on.’

There was a pause. ‘We believe the body is that of Christian Hartwell – your son.’

Ruth froze, her eyes glazed and wide with shock. From a distance she heard the female officer offering soft words of regret. She noticed that through their obviously genuine concern they were watching her, assessing her reaction. She got up slowly from her chair and moved to the sink; a strange-looking figure swathed in long scarves over a thick wool sweater, beneath which was a flowing skirt which looked as though it might have been manufactured in the 1970s. She leaned over the sink, letting out a long moan.

Cat got up, and stood beside the stricken woman.

‘Give me a minute; I shall be all right,’ Ruth said.

‘Would you like a drink of water?’ Cat said. ‘Or I could make some tea.’

‘No, no. I’m not ill.’ She straightened up and ran her hands over her unruly grey waves. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, making her way back to her chair and staring down at the notebook on her table. ‘How did it happen?’

‘We think he fell from a high point on the crag,’ Swift said. ‘Some time last Tuesday.’

She nodded. ‘I see.’

‘We’re sorry for the delay in telling you,’ he went on. ‘We’ve only just been able to identify him.’

She was sitting up very straight. ‘I’d like some details, please. Don’t be afraid to simply tell me the worst.’

Swift made a quick revision of the gentler, shorter description he had planned to give as a start off, guessing that this woman would not be satisfied. ‘The body was concealed for some time amongst dense foliage and was eventually discovered by a dog.’

There was a silence. Cat and Swift watched her with concern. They were both aware that they had not yet completed the unenviable task they had come to do. Moreover, there was a lonely and stoical mournfulness about the bereaved mother which made it hard to proceed.

Cat took in a breath and leaned forward. ‘Mrs Hartwell, would you feel able to identify your son’s body?’

‘Oh!’ Her face took on a look of horror and distress which was painful to witness. ‘But I am not his mother’ she said, quietly.

Swift and Cat exchanged a glance. ‘He had you down as next of kin in the personnel documents we were able to look at in his place of work,’ Swift said, ‘which is why we were able to find you at this address.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘He had me down as next of kin.’ She considered for a few moments. ‘Yes, I can understand why he did that.’

The two detectives were temporarily at a loss.

‘Perhaps you could explain the situation to us,’ Swift said.

‘Christian lived with us from the age of nine,’ Ruth said. ‘His mother used to be a friend of mine. She was a single parent, and she never told anyone who the father was. She used to bring him to stay with us in the school holidays, and on one of those occasions she left without him and didn’t come back. And after that he lived with us.’ She paused, looking reflective. ‘I’d rather not say any more than that at present,’ she stated.

Swift and Cat resisted the impulse for another glance, and allowed Ruth time to reflect on what had been said so far.

‘Do you want me to come now?’ Ruth asked. ‘To look at him?’

‘That would be very helpful, if you feel able to do it,’ Cat said kindly. ‘We’ll take you and bring you back, of course.’

Ruth passed a hand over her forehead. ‘Thank you.’

‘Is there anyone you can contact to come with you?’ Cat asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow and I don’t want to disturb and upset my daughter.’ She took some deep breaths to steady herself. ‘Perhaps Tamsin could come with me,’ she said.

It took a few moments for the penny to drop. ‘Your dog?’ Swift enquired.

‘Yes. Would that be all right?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ It struck him that Ruth Hartwell was a very lonely woman if the only creature she felt able to call on to accompany her to an ID was her dog.

Swift took the wheel, whilst Cat sat with Ruth Hartwell and her pet in the back seat. As they came into the town they slowed down to a halt at traffic lights. Ruth saw a rush of people crossing the road in front of the car. They were laughing and carefree, full of youth and hope. She recalled herself at that age, remembered the excitement about becoming an adult, the optimism of treading the path that lay ahead. And then her thoughts veered back instantly to Christian, reflecting on the loneliness of his early childhood. His mother had not been a cruel woman, simply not very interested in her child. And after all those troubled years of his early childhood, now his adulthood had been tragically cut short.

She held herself erect against the back of the car seat, her hand lightly resting on her dog’s neck. She seemed to be shut into some parallel world, looking down on herself, as she wandered through her thoughts, seeing the dark world pass in front of her eyes beyond the car windows, but feeling very little at all.

She hardly registered the arrival at the morgue, the long walk down a cold corridor, the moment she was confronted with a table on which a body lay covered by a white cloth.

And yes, it was him, her Christian. She felt a rush of love and affection for him. And then, suddenly the lights above her were blinding her, making her unsteady. Salt water rushed into her mouth. She raised her gaze to connect with the pathologist as had been advised, but it seemed to slide away from the young woman’s face and skidded up to the ceiling. Her legs were trembling and useless, ready to fall. There was an edge of darkness around her vision.

No, NO, I will not permit it, she told herself fiercely. I will not lose control, lose my dignity in front of these strangers. Dredging up every ounce of her will she lowered her head and thrust it as far down between her knees as she could. The woman officer was there instantly, placing a supporting arm around her waist. She wanted to bat it away, but her strength was required elsewhere, in the fight against black oblivion. Pulling all her reserves together she willed herself to return to a state of full awareness. Consciousness brought pain, but pain had to be felt in order to be defeated. Pain was preferable to the soft controlling pillow of darkness which would strip away every vestige of personal power and decision-making.

She straightened up and gently pushed away the woman detective’s protective arm. She turned to the pathologist and the two officers who were looking on, quietly concerned. ‘That is Christian,’ she said. ‘Known as Hartwell. And now, I want to go home, please.’

The two officers stood aside deferentially as she turned her back on the body and started to move towards the door. She supposed there were more questions that she should ask, but she was too drained and exhausted to think what. And what did it matter; Christian was dead, no amount of questions would bring him back.

The journey home passed in a blur.

‘Are you sure we can’t call anyone to come and stay with you?’ the woman officer asked as the car drew to a halt outside the house.

‘You have no need to worry about me,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘I’m used to being on my own.’ Feeling that comment had been rather churlish, she added that they had both been very kind.

In the event, both officers insisted on seeing her safely into the house. Ruth half expected the man to patrol the entire building and ensure that there were no intruders or miscreants present. Which would have been a waste of time. Firstly, no one bothered with the
Old School House
, knowing there were no valuables to speak of within its crumbling walls. And secondly, a dog was a far better seeker-out of stowaways than any human searcher.

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to inform anyone else of Christian’s death?’ the woman asked. ‘I was wondering about his mother … his birth mother. A girlfriend, perhaps?’

Ruth sighed internally. She was longing to lie down in her bed and sink into oblivion. ‘His mother has been dead for some years now. And he never married; he was always something of a loner. As far as girlfriends go, I simply don’t know.’ She looked at the officers’ concerned faces. ‘I’ll answer any further questions you have – but not now. I’m tired, and you must be also. You two go along,’ she told the officers in the manner of a teacher dismissing children who were eager to be on their way home. ‘Thank you very much for your concern. I’m free most times in the day if you want to talk again.’

Swift and Cat stepped out into the night. Both let out long deep breaths.

‘Made of stern stuff,’ Cat commented. ‘I hope she’ll be all right.’

‘Yes.’ Swift’s deliberations turned to the crushing shock he had felt after Kate’s sudden death. But he had had Naomi to share the grief with him. Ruth Hartwell looked so alone.

‘I’m happy to come and see her again in the morning,’ Cat said. ‘Do a little digging.’

‘No. You need to have your weekend to yourself, to do what you like.’

‘Which probably means you want to talk to her by yourself,’ she said, laughing. ‘Come on, Ed. I know you, married to the job!’

He looked down at her and smiled. And you could be married to Jeremy Howard before too long, he thought with heavy regret.

Swift left it until 10.30 the next morning, then telephoned Ruth Hartwell and asked if he could call to see her later that morning. Within the hour he was following her down the dark oak-panelled hallway of the
Old School House
into her kitchen, shifting his thoughts from the morning’s expedition to the crag to the interview ahead. The scent of cooking drifted from the kitchen, a roast or a casserole – comfort food.

Mrs Hartwell gestured to one of the oak chairs around the kitchen table and offered him a hot drink. He requested tea, noting that she seemed edgy and nervous at his arrival, and guessing that preparing tea would give her something to take the edge off her anxiety.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Ruth Hartwell said, pressing the switch on the kettle and reaching for a plain white china teapot. She turned to look at him as she spoke. Her gaze was direct and assessing, and there was something in her demeanour that spoke of insight and shrewdness.

As she poured the tea, he noted that her hands seemed quite steady and the emotional atmosphere in the room was now solemn, rather than tense. Mrs Hartwell struck him as a very self-composed person. He reflected on the extent to which women of Mrs Hartwell’s generation, who opted to dress in old, dowdy clothes and wear their white hair long and piled up on top of their head in some kind of spiky tuft, easily became tarred with the brush of daft old bat, women to be ignored and patronized. ‘I’m very sorry for the loss of your son,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She gave him another of her long, appraising looks. ‘Before you ask me any questions, I’d like to ask you some,’ she told him.

‘Go ahead.’

‘You’re a DCI and your colleague was a detective inspector. That means you think that Christian’s death was not an accident – am I right?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward towards her. ‘Mrs Hartwell, although we believe that Christian died as a result of injuries from a fall, we also have to take into account the fact that his clothes were set alight and that he suffered significant burns.’

She stared at him. ‘Oh, no!’

‘We’re fairly confident he was already dead at the time his clothes started to burn,’ he reassured her.

‘So that means you think someone wanted to do him harm?’

‘Yes, that could be the case. We also have to take into account the fact that he was carrying no wallet, no phone, no keys … all the usual things people carry around with them. Although he did have thirty or so pounds on him.’

He was about to elaborate further when she held up her hand to stop him. ‘So, whoever set fire to him wasn’t a petty thief?’

‘That’s the supposition we are currently working with.’

She shook her head in despair. ‘I can’t understand all this. I just can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him deliberately.’

‘Mrs Hartwell, you mentioned yesterday that Christian was not actually your son,’ Swift observed.

‘That’s right.’ She pushed the teapot towards him and gestured to him to take a refill. ‘Do you have children?’ she asked.

‘One daughter,’ he said. ‘She’s just graduated.’

Ruth nodded, as though he passed some kind of test, as though having a child of his own would make him someone she could trust to talk to about her putative son. ‘Would it help if I told you something of Christian’s story?’

‘Indeed, it would.’

‘I first met him when he was four years old and living with his mother, Pamela Oldfied. She was looking after him on her own, which was not yet fashionable in those days. In fact, she was so feisty she declined to name Christian’s father on the birth certificate, claiming he was just a one night stand at a drunken party and she didn’t actually know who he was.’

‘Do you believe that … that she didn’t know?’

Ruth shrugged. ‘You never quite knew with Pamela; she’d tell you what it suited her to tell. She’d got herself into something of a dead-end situation: having an illegitimate baby to look after, getting the push from her parents and renting a flat in a little terrace house in Leeds city centre. It was one of those houses that made your heart sink into your boots when you opened the door and faced the gloom and the lingering smell of boiled cabbage.’

‘How did you meet her?’ Swift asked.

‘She used to go to school with me. After that, we lost touch for a few years. I trained to be a social worker and she and Christian turned up on my case load. He was causing mayhem, both at home and at his nursery school, and I was called in to do a home visit and see what was what. Help and advise.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It wasn’t easy. Pamela was a pretty terrible mother. Her main strategy in coping with Christian was trying to pretend he wasn’t there, or fobbing him off on to any other family who’d have him.’ She shook her head, biting on her lip. ‘What a job it was that I chose, like having your finger stuck permanently in the dike.’

‘Is that a general remark or a specific reference to Pamela and Christian?’

‘Both, probably. Anyway I became attached to both of them, and after I got married, had my family and stopped work, I made sure we kept in touch. Pamela and Christian used to come and stay in the school holidays. Christian loved being here, messing around in the garden, going out for walks in the country with the dogs. Visiting the farm up the road. Eating home-made food – all the usual things children like. He fitted in here like a duck takes to water. And Pamela! Well, she liked the freedom of not having to mind a child all the time. She’d go out a lot, have little flirtations at the local pub.’

‘How did Christian react to that?’ Swift asked.

‘Oh, he didn’t appear to mind at all. His mother had never been much of a companion for him, and, in fact, I think her frequent absences brought him a sense of relief, a freedom to do and think what he wanted.’ She shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m not trying to paint Pamela as a monster; it’s just that she wasn’t cut out for understanding children and enjoying their company. Anyway, in the summer when Christian was nine she asked if we’d look after him whilst she went for a weekend break with a new boyfriend.’ She stopped and her eyes gleamed with tears. ‘As I told you yesterday, she never came back, although she kept in touch by phone, and she wrote to him from time to time.’

‘And Christian’s reaction to this new situation?’

‘He seemed to cope amazingly well. He’d sometimes ask about Pamela but he seemed happy just to carry on with his life here. He got on fine with our daughter; he settled in to the local school. Which, of course, was all well and good, and certainly very convenient and trouble-free for us. But desperately sad. And, of course, being rejected so heartlessly by his mother would have had a huge effect on him, even if he was not consciously aware of it.’

Swift thought of his daughter’s childhood, and fully agreed. Naomi, of course, had had to cope with her mother’s sudden death while she was still only in her teens. But she had never had to cope with indifference and outright parental rejection.

‘And I have to say,’ Ruth added, ‘that he was a bit of a daredevil; impulsive and reckless, but then so are many young people.’

‘Are you saying that he took life-threatening risks?’ Swift asked.

‘No, no. I believe that he loved life. And he certainly wouldn’t have jumped off a crag, knowing he could kill himself.’

‘Did you apply to foster him?’

‘No. We simply took him into our home as a welcome addition to the family for however long he and his mother were happy for him to stay. I suppose that sounds shockingly informal and open-ended, but regulations weren’t as tight then. And, in any case, Pamela still thought of him as her child, even though she was perfectly willing to put us in charge of his care and development.’

‘And later on, Christian decided he wanted to take the name Hartwell?’ Swift asked. ‘When exactly was that?’

‘Just after his mother died. He was eighteen then, and studying for his A levels.’

‘I see.’ Swift thought about it, guessing that once his birth mother was gone, Christian had felt free to take on the name of the family who had shown him most love. He was getting the impression that the dead man on the crag had had a number of major issues to deal with in his troubled youth.

‘He didn’t want to go to university,’ Ruth continued. ‘He opted for training as a journalist. He also did a photography course, and his pictures were remarkably good, in my view. In fact, I often thought he might have made more of a mark on the world with his photography rather than his writing.’

‘He wanted to make a mark on the world?’ Swift commented.

She smiled. ‘Yes, I believe he was quite ambitious.’ She stirred her tea. ‘So what can I tell you next? Have we got to the point where you’re going to ask me if he had any enemies, and if he’d been acting strangely recently?’

Swift agreed, wondering if Ruth Hartwell had some knowledge of police procedure or a liking for detective fiction. She seemed to have been one step ahead of him throughout the interview. Not because he was losing his grip, but because she seemed a strongly proactive person, in a quiet kind of way.

‘I can’t think of any current enemies,’ Ruth said, ‘and when I last saw him he seemed happy and positive. He was looking forward to the publication of his book and his aunt, Pamela’s elder sister, had recently left him some money in her will. When he left, he gave me one of his half-embarrassed hugs, and he said, “Things are on the up.” I keep remembering that.’

‘When was it that you last saw him?’ Swift prompted.

‘About three weeks ago. In the past few years I haven’t seen him very often at all. But he’d occasionally phone or send me a scribbled postcard.’

‘Do you have a current address for him?’ Swift asked.

‘It’s a flat in Burley-in-Wharfedale. I’ve never been there. He always visited here.’ She reached for a battered handbag and rummaged through it, eventually coming up with a small hard-backed notebook which she leafed through and handed to Swift, indicating the information he had requested.

‘We shall need to make a search of the flat,’ he said gently.

‘Yes. I understand.’

‘Do you keep a key, here, Mrs Hartwell?’

‘No. I think one of his neighbours has one.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it,’ Swift reassured her.

As he spoke the last few words there was the sound of the front door opening. A voice called out. ‘Hello! It’s only me!’ Footsteps progressed down the hallway. ‘Hello!’

Ruth’s face stilled. ‘In here,’ she called back.

A tall slender woman opened the door and walked purposefully into the room, stopping short on seeing Swift. ‘Oh!’ She glanced at Ruth, the question in her eyes almost an accusation.

Ruth got up, walked forward and put her arms around the woman, reaching up to kiss her cheek, but only managing to connect with air, as the woman turned away slightly in anticipation of the embrace.

‘It’s good of you to come, Harriet,’ she said.

The woman gave a tight smile. ‘You sounded a bit rough when you phoned last night.’ She glanced once again at Swift.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Swift,’ Ruth told the visitor. She turned to Swift. ‘My daughter, Harriet Brunswick,’ she said.

Swift stood up in acknowledgement and held out his hand. Harriet Brunswick hesitated a moment before extending her own hand.

The dog had got up from its bed in a frenzy of prancing, barking welcome. ‘Get down,’ Harriet said, brushing the animal away with a firm hand.

Swift glanced across to Ruth and saw her give a tiny grimace. ‘Go back to your bed,’ she told the dog, with gentle command. ‘Do you want tea?’ she asked her daughter, preparing to get to her feet.

‘Sit down, Mother,’ Harriet said. ‘I’ll get it myself.’ She took off her black coat and threw it over a chair before crossing to the kettle and switching it on.

Swift noticed that the label in the coat said Max Mara. And that Harriet Brunswick, in contrast to her mother, looked extremely polished and expensive. He also noticed a sea change in the atmosphere of the room. The calmness and openness of the previous minutes had now been overtaken by an air of tension and suspicion.

Harriet turned from the kettle and leaned up against the counter. ‘I get the feeling I’ve interrupted something important. Would you like me to take my tea elsewhere?’

‘We’ve been discussing Christian,’ Ruth said. ‘You’ve no need to go elsewhere, there are no secrets.’

‘Good,’ said Harriet, flashing a hard look at her mother.

‘Do you think Christian had secrets?’ Swift interposed, suddenly picking up the scent of an interesting line of enquiry. He addressed the question directly to Harriet.

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Harriet snapped back, immediately biting her lips. ‘But as regards Christian I have no idea.’ She turned back to the kettle. ‘We were never close. We liked each other well enough, but he was just another visitor to the house. And I was quite used to that in my childhood.’

Swift noticed Ruth chew on her lip. ‘My husband and I sometimes offered temporary accommodation to homeless people.’

‘Lame ducks,’ Harriet commented dryly. ‘Or should I say dogs? I didn’t really mind. I just determined to make quite a different sort of life for myself when I became an adult. It’s a very common phenomenon.’ She brought a cup of tea to the table and drew a chair out for herself. ‘Are you all right, Mother?’ she asked, her voice softening a little.

‘Yes, but a sudden death is always a shock.’ Ruth looked down at her hands.

Harriet nodded. ‘Well, I’m here now, to help any way I can.’

Ruth gave a small smile. ‘Where is Jake?’ she asked, thinking wistfully that it was a long time since she had seen her grandson.

‘Staying with his friend, Oliver. They’ll have a great time together.’

Swift got up. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said, appreciating that Ruth and her daughter needed the chance to resolve their personal difficulties in private. He considered staying on for a time, taking advantage of the edginess between them as a tool in the search for information. On balance, he doubted that he would achieve much in that direction at this stage and he had no intention of playing the role of voyeur and intruder.